


Round Numbers (Axiomatic Blend)

by schmevil



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Backstory, Family, Female Protagonist, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-28
Updated: 2010-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-06 18:30:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schmevil/pseuds/schmevil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione learns to tell stories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Round Numbers (Axiomatic Blend)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a [remix](http://remix.illuminatedtext.com/) of [](http://saeva.livejournal.com/profile)[**saeva**](http://saeva.livejournal.com/)'s [Passive Aggressive](http://koanju.com/index.php?p=194#more-194). [](http://metaphoracle.livejournal.com/profile)[**metaphoracle**](http://metaphoracle.livejournal.com/) and [](http://naked-birthday.livejournal.com/profile)[**naked_birthday**](http://naked-birthday.livejournal.com/) did beta duties, with [](http://cedarlibrarian.livejournal.com/profile)[**cedarlibrarian**](http://cedarlibrarian.livejournal.com/) and [](http://seperis.livejournal.com/profile)[**seperis**](http://seperis.livejournal.com/) on the handholding crew.

"Hermione, what's wrong?"

"Oh it's nothing," she sniffled, and wiped her face clean with the sleeve of her jumper. Hermione put everything out her mind except her mother. "Nothing mum."

"You're crying. Something is obviously the matter."

"It's just... it's silly." Instead of watching Sirius die in her mind, over and over, she saw herself taking her OWLs.

"Hermione."

"My transfiguration exam, I don't think I did as well as I could have."

"You push yourself too hard, honey. It's all right if you don't make perfect marks in every class."

"You say that now, but what happens when I fail?"

Her mother's mouth twisted in a sour grin. "We'll never know, will we?"

"No mum, of course not."

It was a bit like running on water. There were spells for that but it was still the first thing that came to mind as something near-impossible.

Physics was the first science that caught her attention as a child because it was full of so many ways to make things closer to possible, like if an object were to move fast enough it wouldn't break the surface tension of the water and thus, would not fall in.

On Sunday mornings when the weather was decent, the whole family went for walks in the park. She spent seventy-three consecutive Sunday mornings skipping smooth, slightly flat stones across the small pond in the center of the park, while her parents watched from the bench. Seventy-three cloudy, sunny, cold and hot Sunday mornings of counting plink-plink-plink and watching stones finally drop into the water.

On the seventy-fourth, the second stone of the day kept going, farther and farther, until she was sure it reached the other side. She tried again – it was important to verify your results – and counted it skip plink-plink-plink and drop.

She dragged her parents to the other side of the pond as soon as she could and she was sure, _sure_ she recognized the smooth, slightly flat stone in the rushes. It was another two weeks before she tired of skipping stones and began spending Sunday mornings meticulously cataloguing local flora.

It was a bit like running on water – just lie, lie, lie until you finally slip and fall. But this time instead of physics, she was governed by magic, whose rules were vastly different.

***

Hermione told her parents everything so when a strange letter arrived, addressed to her so precisely it was directed to her bedroom, the first thing she did was call for her parents. The only mail _she_ ever received were the encyclopedias she ordered through school.

"Do you think it's a bomb?"

"It's much too small to be a bomb, dear," her mother frowned. Not at her, but at the letter. Hermione's parents rarely had cause to be displeased with her and besides which, they always said that there were better ways to show displeasure and disapproval than frowning. Frowning was imprecise.

Her father picked it up and carefully examined it, for the third time. "Bombs _are_ getting smaller."

"What if it's poisoned?"

Her father nodded approvingly. "He could have poisoned the seal."

"_She_ could have," added her mother.

"Point."

They stared at the letter, waiting for some clue to reveal itself.

"The writing, the ink and all – it seems a bit gimmicky, don't you think Leroy?"

"Yeah, some." He peered at the letter.

"What is it?" Hermione asked.

"It's some kind of marketing scheme."

Her mother nodded. "They must have bought demographic information from the phone company."

"But how would they know to address it to my bedroom?"

"Children traditionally get the smallest bedroom in the house."

"So it's safe to open it." She grabbed the letter from her father and pushed a finger into an opening at the end of the seal.

"I don't know dear, advertising is one of the world's great evils," her father said, smiling.

She tore it open.

Advertising, they decided and moved on to debating whether fish or chicken were in order for dinner.

Four letters later and they'd started adding things like: "This is not an advert!" and "One of our representatives will be visiting shortly." Hermione just tossed them out with the rest of the morning rubbish. Magic was not real, Hogwarts was not a real word and anyone who sent letters on _parchment_, written with so many curlicues and flourishes wanted to fool someone. She was not going to be fooled. Her parents were _dentists_.

One day she opened the door to a thin older woman with black hair tied up neatly under a neat black witch's hat and wearing a bright green dress that bore a strange resemblance to academic robes. Hermione's eyes opened wide, so wide her eyelashes tickled her cheeks and she froze.

Close the door, she thought. Close and don't open it until she's gone. Or- let go of the door and pull her in. Someone might see her, all dressed up for Halloween in the middle of the summer, and right on her front step. Someone might see. Or- wait, wait just long enough to see. She was frozen so long that the woman chose for her.

"Hello Miss Granger."

"You know my name," she said, and clapped a hand over her mouth. She wasn't supposed to talk to strangers and more, she was never supposed to talk to people _this_ strange, familiar or not. And even if her parents didn't have a rule about strangers, she'd think twice before conversing with this one.

"Of course I do. How could I have attempted to correspond with you without it?" the old lady said, with the assurance that comes of having all the logic on her side. And she did have all the logic on her side, and a point besides, because how else _could_ she have sent all those letters?

"You sent those letters?"

The old lady frowned at her and suddenly Hermione knew that her parents were mistaken – frowns were worth a thousand words or more, surely. "Oh yes. Far more than I'm accustomed to sending, I assure you."

"I'm sorry about that, but you see, we're not interested in buying anything."

"I certainly wasn't advertising anything," she said, seemingly disgusted with the very notion.

"It certainly _looked_ like you were advertising something," Hermione said looked significantly at her clothes. "Who sends a letter on _parchment_?"

"All sensible witches and wizards."

She laughed. "You don't really _believe_ all that magic nonsense, do you?"

"As a witch, I'm required to believe it," she said wryly.

Hermione sniffed. "It sounds like a cult."

"A what, dear?"

"A group of fanatical people who are forced to believe the same thing. Sometimes they kill."

The woman's eyebrows shot up and she sounded almost alarmed. "Nothing of the sort!"

"Hermione, who's that at the door?" her father asked. Before she could answer he was coming down the stairs.

"Hello." Her father eyed the woman suspiciously, but less obviously than her mother would have.

"Good afternoon, I'm Professor Minerva McGonagall of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry." She _sounded_ like a teacher, but no teacher Hermione knew could have said something so totally absurd and sound so confident, so… natural. Definitely a cult.

"Oh I see, and what can I do for you?" He moved to stand behind Hermione, put a hand on her shoulder.

"You can give me a few minutes of your time. Surely a few minutes, even if I'm insane or attempting to sell something can't hurt."

"Alright – go on then."

She quirked an eyebrow, as if to say 'here on your doorstep?' Hermione had a strong suspicion she thought them rude. "Have you ever noticed that strange, inexplicable things sometimes happen around your daughter?"

Her father's hand tightened on her shoulder. Hermione craned her neck to look at his face – the line of his mouth was harder than she'd ever seen it, but he kept smiling, still politely. "No, not at all."

"For example, being unharmed by a serious fall, or collision. Healing quickly from a serious injury, with no scar to prove it ever occurred."

"I don't know what you're talking about," her father said, voice gone cold.

The corners of her mouth turned up in a small, brief smile – not a happy one. Though no softer, her voice gentled. "Inanimate objects moving by themselves, or in unusual ways. Ways that seem impossible."

Her father gripped the door and moved to shut it. "I think we've heard enough _professor_. I'm afraid we'll be declining your offer to educate Hermione."

Hermione pulled out of her father's grasp and darted forward, put herself in the way of the door. "Magic – when things are impossible, when they can't be explained by science. That's magic?"

The professor pursed her lips a little, tilted her head, considering. "I know nothing about Muggle science, but magic would seem impossible to a Muggle."

"What about- do you know anything about the owls?" They'd all noticed the owls that were occasionally visible, day _and_ night these last two months, that didn't bother to hide high up in the branches of the trees on their lawn. The owls that flew past their windows right after the post delivery.

"Owls? They delivered the letters, of course." She said it as though nothing else had ever occurred to her – the sun rose and owls delivered the mail. The professor lifted her nose, her expression superior but not malicious, not condescending, exactly. Hermione knew the difference.

Her father grabbed her shoulder, harder this time. "Hermione, come away from there."

"Have you been watching me?" Hermione blurted out.

"No. These are common early manifestations of magic. Most young witches and wizards experience something like them." The professor looked Hermione's father in the eye. "Wouldn't you like an explanation?"

Her father frowned at her, at Hermione, at everything it seemed.

"Dad, can't we hear the professor out?"

"You don't latch onto the first explanation that comes along, even if it seems to fit."

The professor adjusted her glasses, cleared her throat. "No, I certainly wouldn't recommend it," she said and then drew a long thin stick from her sleeve. "So let me prove it."

And then she did.

***

It was difficult, so difficult until suddenly, the prospect of telling the truth became the most impossible of things and lying was easy – like breathing, something unconscious and entirely natural. She edited her letters while composing them in her head, learning to give just enough to inspire verisimilitude. She learned to tell stories, in writing at least, and by the time summer came around, she'd told the same ones, over and over until they came automatically to her lips.

Her parents weren't like the Weasleys, or like Harry – they were part of an entirely different world, one that didn't include trolls or escaped convicts. One where the most sinister conspiracy was Mrs. Hitchins' not-so-secret plot to co-ordinate the colors of all the doors in the neighborhood. Her parents were dentists.

Second year was good training in so many ways and Hermione could pinpoint exactly when her parents stopped expecting anything more than stories from her. It wasn't something she was aware of, when she was desperate to unravel the mystery of the Chamber of Secrets and telling her parents all about her fascinating independent research project on rare magical creatures, but looking back it was obvious.

That year, every letter was increasingly and bizarrely normal, filled with details of class work, library study sessions and Quidditch matches. Those made it through unedited because they were comfortably mundane enough – having easy Muggle equivalents – that even when she was studying hinkypinks and charms, and the school sport involved brooms and flying balls, they seemed _real_. They were exactly what her parents were expecting from their witch of a daughter and it was easier to take those stories and make them their own, twist and turn them until they could be told at cocktail parties. Perfect because no matter how strange and scary the notion of magic was, they still understood her world and they knew she was safe.

When she went home, every conversation over breakfast and dinner and those less and less frequent walks in the park became easier. Easier for all of them – and if sometimes she almost slipped and fell because she looked at her parents and wanted, so badly to ask for their advice, Hermione knew that if she was running, they were running with her.

One breakfast her mother asked her to pass the salt.

The night before she'd finished up her charms work, even the extra she'd convinced Professor Flitwick to give her. She couldn't practice incantations of course, but you could never study or prepare enough for charms. Professor Flitwick hadn't wanted to give her even the homework he'd assigned the rest of her year because she'd had, he said, a particularly difficult year. So Hermione pestered him until he relented and awarded her with a particularly difficult problem.

Sure she was close, Hermione stayed up, even after her father told her to put out the light and go to bed, until she understood it completely and when she did, it was like finding a rare book she'd previously been unaware of, but now knew was absolutely necessary.

She went to sleep excited and woke, still excited. She watched her mother make breakfast, like every Saturday morning at home she could remember, and explained about the charm.

"Of course, the right wand motions are crucial. Poor wand technique is the most common cause of a failed charm – I keep trying to tell Ron that but he never listens."

Her mother added a precisely measured half a teaspoon of cinnamon to beaten eggs, milk and vanilla and nodded without looking up. "Ron's a good boy but he doesn't apply himself academically. Some boys never do."

"Some boys never do what?" her father asked from the doorway. Stretching along the way, he walked over to the counter where his wife was working and snuck a wedge of orange.

"Learn the value of education," she said, waving her whisk threateningly. He sidled away, making for the coffee pot that was well out of range of the wet whisk. "Or learn from their mistakes."

He poured himself a cup of coffee that was more milk than coffee and sighed happily. "No one in this family has that problem," he said, grinning over his mug.

"Anyway," Hermione said. "The right wand motion is crucial because if you finish with a _lift_ instead of a _dip_ then the charm could backfire and that could be… disastrous."

Her mother nodded. "Could you pass the salt, dear?" Hermione handed her the box of table salt and watched her shake it in without bothering with a measuring spoon. She always measured.

Her mother was the one who responded to Hermione's first letter after she was stunned by the basilisk – she asked about the weather in Scotland and how Hermione was going to catch up on her work. She admonished her to always wear clothes that were appropriate to the weather so she wouldn't get sick again. Not even witches were immune to the common cold.

Hermione counted herself lucky but didn't really consider how thin her excuse for the long gap in correspondence was until years later. She promised to wear her scarf and hat when it was cold, not just her mittens and said she'd just study twice as hard as she was used to. She added that she'd be careful about getting too much sun during the summer term, after being sick.

They never spoke of it again.

Her mother tapped her whisk firmly against the rim of the bowl, shaking off the excess mixture, then put it into the sink. "Do you have the bread ready?"

"Yes, mum." Hermione offered her the first slice.

"Why don't you go ahead and dip them?" She moved away from the corner, gesturing for Hermione to take her place. "I'll watch the pan and you can tell me more about your charms later." She sounded tired.

"Alright." Hermione dipped the slice of bread into the mixture, careful to submerge every bit of it. When she was sure it was thoroughly coated, she passed it her mother, who placed it on the hot pan. French toast was her favourite.

Her mother stared into the pan, watching the bread turn brown.

***

Looking down on Peter Pettigrew's newly transformed shape, Hermione knew that she was never going to be able to tell her parents the truth. How does one go from increasingly vague discussions of homework and Quidditch, to explaining that your best friend's parents were murdered by a rat? How to explain werewolves, Dementors and a culture that needed Azkaban prison?

Pettigrew crawled toward Ron, on hands and knees like the animal he'd spent over a decade impersonating. His skin, thick and waxy, was slick with cold sweat and he _smelled_ desperate – her stomach turned when he started to beg.

She watched Ron recoil from the man, knew that she would do the same if he came near her. Forget that he was human and deserved – compassion, a fair trial, something. She looked into his eyes and saw nothing but terror.

And then he turned from Ron, moved faster than she imagined he could, his clawed hands extended before him. "Sweet girl," he said, his pale, sickly white hands curled around the hem of her robes. He looked up at her, eyes child-wide – not innocent. Not at all innocent. "Clever girl… you – you won't let them… help me…" She pulled away from him, yanked her robes out of his grasp and pressed her back against the wall, hard.

She looked away from Pettigrew and her gaze landed on Sirius Black, Professor Lupin, Professor Snape's frozen form.

How do you tell someone that you've seen a man beg for his life? That you've seen others commit to murder, casually, as a matter of course – as if there were nothing more natural in the world.

She spent days imagining all the possible permutations of that conversation and finally sent a letter about how much she was looking forward to seeing her parents again.

The first lie she ever told was a small one. They were in a grocery store and she wanted a sweet. Her mother said no but Hermione wanted a sweet – at six she didn't entirely understand why she shouldn't have what she liked.

At thirteen, what she liked was a lot more than sweets. She knew how to tell the big lies, the ones that stay with you forever. Some nights she woke up, Pettigrew's eyes following her and she couldn't remember what it was like to feel guilty.

Some nights, listening to Lavender and Parvati's even breathing she wondered what it was like for them, and lay in her bed, as still as she could manage. Knowing that the last thing she wanted was for them to wake.

Some nights they shared a bed, curled up together crying about boys, spots, marks – whatever pressure was too much for them that week. She was glad to be excluded – glad because the sight of it made something curl up in her belly, tight and hard.

More often she wondered what it would be like to fall asleep to the sound of Ron and Harry breathing, and if it would be different. If Ron had to lie to his parents, who always seemed to know – if he ever _wanted_ to. If he was even capable of it. She tried to picture her friend lying to his mother over breakfast without blushing and stuttering and couldn't quite make it work – the image just broke apart, so impossible she couldn't make it happen with magic. Because he wouldn't need to.

She lay there, her muscles knotting tighter and tighter – thinking of Harry, who had no one who cared. Those nights she didn't pity him.

***

When she opened the door and found Harry, rumpled and angry, standing on her front step, she remembered vividly what it felt like to cling to the invisible back of a thestral.

"Harry! What are you doing here?" She looked him over and the bulging rucksack slung over his shoulder answered the question for her. One of the first things she learned at school was that there were no stupid questions – it took her years to unlearn that lie.

"It's the Dursleys." He looked her straight in the eye, anger making his words even and hard. "They decided they didn't want a freak in the house any longer."

She opened her mouth to reply but for a long moment, nothing came out. They'd gone to the park that morning, for the first time in a while and her mother had suggested that they go to the museum that evening, after they had tea and she watered the front garden. Hermione calculated the time available and decided she was going to finish her potions homework – it just needed a final rewrite. Perhaps another foot on shrivelfigs. In no way had Harry Potter figured into her plans for the afternoon.

Her hand dropped from the door and she stared at him another moment, then tried to pull her thoughts together. Harry had never been to her house before.

"I don't understand. I thought… I thought Headmaster Dumbledore took care of that. He sent to your aunt personally!"

"Maybe he's getting old, because he doesn't seem as persuasive as he used to be. Uncle Vernon didn't want me around anymore, not that he ever did. Dudley too. Aunt Petunia just did what was easier. It's not as if she ever wanted me there."

"But, what are you doing here?"

"What, you don't want me? Are you going to send me away too?" he asked mockingly.

His tone made something snap in her. Woke her up. Hermione unfroze, suddenly acutely conscious of practical concerns. "Harry! What about the Death Eaters? You can't just stand around out there – what if they followed you?" She grabbed his shirt and dragged him inside. Checked the street, and then shut the door. A year of Harry's anger had taught her how to ignore him when he was being an idiot, and just do what was best.

His eyes were very wide, startled and more white than green – in a flash she saw other Harrys, a logical series, each one a little older than the one before. Taller, heavier, more confident, definitely angrier, but his eyes were the same. Eyes didn't change – myopia was permanent, without surgical intervention, and pupils dilated according to chemical rules.

They were close enough that she could see how shaken he was, even with too-long hair and thick lenses in the way. She let go of Harry's shirt and moved to touch him differently.

It was frustrating – infuriating – the way he pretended not to care, when it was so obvious that he did. That he was angry. Scared. Boys, she thought – because Ron did the same thing. Her mind abruptly skittered away to fourth year and Ron's absolute idiocy over the Goblet of Fire. Harry's equally idiotic behavior over every last thing that happened this year.

He pulled away from her, tensed up, and for a second she thought he was going to do – something. Then he turned his eyes to the ceiling, the walls, turned away from her – turned into himself, like he took all his anger, folded it up and put it into his back pocket. She felt cold, as cold as he looked.

Hermione went to the door, flipped the locks and wished she was at Hogwarts, where she could charm the door. Wished that someone who wasn't bound by the Ministry could do it, do something.

"Don't worry, Dumbledore's on it."

"What?"

"The locks. You won't have to worry about securing the house against invading Death Eaters – the Headmaster assured me. He's going to make sure everything's _just fine_."

Harry slouched in the hall, sullenly inspecting the wallpaper. His shoulders were tight, though. Every part of him was hard – like he'd been since last summer, hard and untouchable. She wanted to hug him, or shake him out of it, do something to crack his bad mood open and let out what was underneath. Only, she wasn't sure she knew what to do with it.

"Your house is very beige." He dropped his rucksack to the floor.

"Harry – what are you doing here?"

"Dumbledore's idea."

"I got that, but _why_ are you _here_?"

"Well, I couldn't go back to Grimmauld Place, could I? And Hogwarts, as usual, is out of the question. Wouldn't want to inconvenience the teachers, would we?"

"Did you fight with the Dursleys? You know you shouldn't antagonize them-"

"Why do you always assume it was something _I_ did?"

"I didn't-"

"The fact that I'm _alive_ has always been enough for them."

"Harry, I'm not blaming you. I just don't understand-"

"Of course you don't. Your parents are thrilled they have a witch in the family-"

"Stop cutting me off!" she snapped.

"Hermione?" Her father's voice was quickly followed by his noisy clattering down the stairs. "Is someone at the door? Oh Harry! Have you come for a visit?"

"Hullo Mr. Granger."

"Come in. Take your shoes off, mind. Mrs. Granger is sensitive about her rugs."

Harry toed off his trainers and Hermione took them, put them away in the cupboard.

"What brings you all this way?" He smiled politely at Harry, as if this was just another meeting at King's Cross.

"Um, well…" Harry said, looking like he'd been caught sneaking around after hours by Professor McGonagall. It was a nice change from sullen and hostile.

"His uncle's sister lives not far from here. Harry came up with them and thought he'd drop in." It was the first thing that came to mind and the moment the words passed her lips, she regretted it, thinking she could have done better. Should have. What will she say when Harry doesn't leave? And even if she could explain it, explain her best friend showing up without warning and _staying_, how long could he possibly remain _here_?

"Really?" her father asks. Harry shrugs his agreement. "Well it's nice of them to let you visit Hermione. Come and say hi to Mrs. Granger." There was something _wary_ in his manner and Hermione was reminded of that summer after first year, when her parents met Ron's.

Her father smiled blandly at them and she felt exposed. He barely looked at her, or Harry and suddenly everything seemed precarious, as if someone had stripped back layers of the world and bared the struts and supports holding it up.

"Dad," she said nervously, trying to breathe steadily. Appear calm, even if she wasn't. "Harry and I were just going up to my room."

"You have all afternoon. Come into the kitchen first." They both followed Mr. Granger into the kitchen. The Imperius Curse had nothing on her parents.

Hermione shot Harry a desperate look behind her father's back and he just shrugged again. The hard line was back in his shoulders. Hermione wanted to scream, maybe. To drag him back outside – because she wasn't ready for any of this.

"Helen, look who's here."

Her mother turned from the counter where she was taking scones out a box. "Harry! How nice to see you."

"Harry's family is visiting a relative in the area, and they let him come visit Hermione for the afternoon."

"Isn't that nice." She didn't bother to hide her inspection of Harry, and her smile faded like someone had smudged it with an eraser when she saw his rucksack. "Good timing. I was just heating up some scones. I hope you don't mind boxed – I'm rubbish with anything that requires the oven and the bakery makes such nice ones."

"Aunt Petunia makes her own and they're awful."

"It's strange how such a simple thing can cause one so much trouble."

They all stared at each other, and for the first time Harry was the most relaxed.

"Well, why don't you two go upstairs and I'll call you when tea's ready."

"All right," Hermione said. "Let's go Harry." Harry pushed off from where he was leaning against the doorframe and silently followed her. Behind them she could hear her parents talking, strain evident in the careful quiet.

She managed, just barely to wait until Harry closed her bedroom door before turning on him. "So you're staying all summer?"

"Apparently. But maybe you know better? It didn't sound like you were eager to tell your parents."

"You can't just show up and expect me to…"

"What? Be a friend?"

The crack of her hand connecting with his face surprised her more than him. She stared at her hand, stunned, and beyond it, his face. His slow smile. "How dare you." He didn't have an answer prepared for that, or just didn't care. Instead of reply he just shrugged _again_.

Hermione did the only thing she could – yanked his bag out of his loose grip and tossed it onto her bed. "Sit down," she said evenly. "We have to think about this."

"Whatever."

"No Harry, not whatever. You can't show up at my house like this and expect me to do nothing." She motioned him to take a seat in her desk chair and stayed standing so she could pace. "Tell me what happened with the Dursleys, from the beginning."

***

Harry was asleep in the guest room. Or rather, he was supposed to be asleep in the guest room. She was sure he was awake. He hadn't slept through the night all year, Ron said, between visions of the Dark Lord, worrying about visions of the Dark Lord and ordinary nightmares.

She would have to send to Ron in the morning because Harry certainly wouldn't.

Hermione was pretty certain about three things: 1. Harry wasn't going to stir from the guest room any time soon without her mother forcing him; 2. he wasn't going to talk to anyone without her father manipulating him; 3. he wasn't going to sleep even if Cedric Diggory came back to life and announced that the whole Dark Lord thing was a joke.

The mattress let out a grating squeal – Harry turning over _again_. She'd almost believed he was asleep as she hadn't heard anything alarming in at least thirty minutes.

Ten minutes before that she heard an alarming thump. Suspecting he'd tossed and turned right onto the floor, she jumped out of bed, slammed open her door and barreled into his room.

"Harry, what's wrong? Are you having a vision?" She peered into the dark room, wishing she'd thought to turn on the hall light. She could just make out the bed against the wall, and the set of drawers beside the window. The only thing missing was the guest. "Harry?"

Muffled cursing came from a lump on the floor.

She flipped on the light and ran over to Harry, who was tangled in the bedding and trying to thrash his way free. He had one leg up on the bed and an arm flung across the floor. She could just make out his hair, where it peeked out from under the quilt.

He wriggled violently and a bright green eye appeared.

She laughed, despite everything – or, cliché as it was, because of it. She laughed harder than she remembered doing in a long while, and fell on her knees beside him. Still laughing.

The eye went wide and round – angry, she thought, but it was hard to make out expression with only an eye as reference. Somehow that made it funnier, and she bent over, pressed her palms to the floor and just laughed.

"Would you shut up?"

She looked up through a mass of hair, hanging desultorily in her way. Hermione tucked as much of it behind her ears as she could. Harry's whole face was visible now. Including a hard, unamused frown.

"I'm sorry, it's just-"

"Hilarious, I know." Harry rolled from side to side, trying to work an arm free. Something thumped against the floor and his face paled, bone-white. His arm, she thought.

"Hey, stop that. You'll hurt yourself." Harry thrashed again, ignoring his sprained wrist and pulled muscle.

She hadn't noticed it at first – he carried his rucksack with his good hand, and didn't pick anything up. He didn't favour the injury, not enough to attract attention. Until her mother forced him to sit down for an impromptu examination Hermione hadn't noticed anything at all. She should have, because Harry was never a good liar. Except, he knew how to hide pain – but she should know what to look for. Stupid, she thought. She'd seen his eyes.

Long sleeves to cover the bruises Mr. Dursley gave him. A baggy shirt to conceal the swelling, and the way he kept his arm close and still. Pettiness and constant, low-grade resentment that made her want to smack him, every time he spoke. Hug him whenever he didn't.

She gently helped him free of the blankets and he let her, long enough to sit up and pull away. Her hands followed him irresistibly, wanting to, if not hug him, at least touch – offer some physical comfort, whatever he would allow.

"Gerrof," he ground out from behind the tight line of his clenched teeth. He scooted backwards until his back was against the bed, out of her reach and looked out the window. In the half-light his skin was white, grey and darker grey, but his over-sized sleeping shirt revealed huge near-black patches up and down both his arms.

"Don't be an idiot," she said. It was a reflex – he was being silly and usually she could tell him. Impossible to forget that this Harry was uninteresting in listening to anyone else. Easy to push it to the back of your mind in the middle of the night.

"Idiot? You're the one who barged into my room in the middle of the night."

"You _fell_ out of bed. That's not normal sleep behavior."

The moon rose then, lighting up the room just in time for Hermione to see his sneer. "I'm not _normal_, or didn't you notice? And you didn't know I fell out of bed when you came in here."

"There was a noise- stop it, I was, _am_, worried about you. Did you have a vision?"

"No I didn't have a bloody vision!" She was used to him yelling, he'd done enough of it this year but it still hurt – because there was something unbelievable about it.

"Fine, I'm sorry." She wouldn't cry, not over Harry Potter.

"Stop being sorry. I'm tired of people being sorry. Sorry doesn't change anything! It's _useless_." He slammed his arms down, winced when his sprained wrist hit the floor. Her mother had wrapped it but he was the worst patient. The worst. Determined to hurt himself more. And fine, if that's what he wanted to do, he could go right ahead and break every bone in his body but he wasn't going to hurt _her_ in the process.

"Well, what do you want me to do? All you do is push me away and, and behave like a, a total idiot. I can't stop being sorry, Harry, that's how friends feel, so what do you want me to do?" Her voice was rising steadily but she couldn't stop it, keep it under control. She wasn't sure she wanted to. If he was going to sit there and yell in her face, well, she was going to yell right back.

"Just leave me alone!"

"You're in my house."

"Do you think I want to be here? I don't. I would rather be-"

"Where Harry? Where else could you _possibly_ go?"

"Anywhere but here."

"That's not an option."

"Yeah, I noticed."

"We _have_ to make this work. Professor Dumbledore's protections-"

"Yeah, they're worth _so_ much."

"Well he kept the Dursleys home safe all those years, didn't he?"

"So I could live long enough to kill for him."

"Harry!"

"What? It's the truth and you know it – if I was anyone else, he wouldn't have bothered. Plenty of people pissed Voldemort off and they didn't merit the great Dumbledore's special attention. He just wanted his weapon."

"I'm- I'm sick and tired of your _whining_!"

"And I'm tired of both of you." Her mother stood in the still open doorway, rumpled in her sleeping clothes and robe. Hermione's mother _hated_ to wake up in the morning, and hated even more to be woken in the middle of the night. It took her hours to work the fuzziness out of her system.

She rubbed her eyes angrily, glared at them. It was, Hermione decided, a very precise glare. She stood up as if called to attention, and even Harry looked guilty. Her mother was _angry_ and Hermione wasn't sure what to do. The Tories and the dental association frustrated her, and Mrs. Hitchens annoyed her, sometimes to the point of her being cursed, if mildly, but nothing made Helen Granger angry. Anger was messy, uncontrolled, imprecise – except, it wasn't because when her mother looked her in the eye, Hermione felt like she was being _seen_ for the first time.

She hadn't been mad earlier, not really. Confused and frustrated and sad – everything but angry. She should have expected it, and she had, abstractly, but she'd never seen her mother anything but composed.

She sighed and her glare – didn't _soften_, didn't lose focus, but lessened. "Harry, I realize you've had a long, hard day but it's time for bed. You're old enough and mature enough that I expect you to understand and obey the rules of the house."

Harry opened his mouth, probably to yell again, but Hermione's mother cut him off.

"You're justifiably scared, and now that I know what's going on, I am too. The prospect of one of these people showing up at my front door is terrifying. But Mr. Granger and I have to work in the morning and if, as you said, the Headmaster has placed his protection on this house, then there's nothing worth worrying about that can't wait for the morning. Get some sleep. Or at least pretend to. You know where we keep the books – take advantage of them."

Harry looked… chastened. "Mrs. Granger?"

"Yes Harry?" she sighed.

"I'm sorry to have woken you up."

"It's fine Harry, really, but please try to keep quiet after ten from now on. We'll discuss your duties and responsibilities in the morning."

"Ok," he said, almost meekly.

"Hermione, your room. Now." They left the guest room, her mother quietly shutting the door behind them. "If your father isn't already awake it's a miracle, but I don't want to chance it. We have surgery at seven sharp." She turned and headed for her bedroom, on the opposite end of the hall.

"Mum?"

Her mother stopped, let her head fall back but didn't turn. "What?" Exasperation was evident in her voice. She was just tired now.

"I'm sorry. To have woken you."

"I know," she said evenly. "Go to bed."

"Yes mum." Hermione turned and headed for her own room, careful to shut the door quietly.

She got back into bed, surprised to find it still warm, and thought she'd go right to sleep. Dealing with Harry was exhausting. But thirty minutes later she was lying in the same spot, listening to him toss and turn – nothing as violent as his earlier spill, so far – and wishing he would go downstairs and read a book, the paper. Watch telly, even, because that would be less distracting.

Sometimes her father watched telly at night when he couldn't sleep. He turned it low so Hermione's mother wasn't disturbed, and she rarely registered it as anything more than a soft hum. Every place had its own night sounds – the telly was easy to ignore.

Harry's bed let out a grinding squeak, different from the others, and then was silent. Soft thumping – footsteps. She counted them one two three four five, heard the door open and counted again as he padded down the hall and softly, carefully, down the stairs. The floors in their house were loud. Her parents had had three different contractors in but none of them were able to fix the problem. That Harry was so quiet was a testament to all the hard work he'd put in over the years, sneaking around the school. For once she thought it time well spent.

Finally, finally he was giving up on rolling around in the bedclothes and trying something else. If it was like this every night, Hermione was sure she'd be mad by the end of the summer.

She understood why Harry was meant to stay with her family. Really, she did. But she couldn't stop the uncharitable thought that if Dumbledore was so powerful, he could have secured the Burrow. It's not like the Weasleys would have noticed another mouth. Mrs. Weasley would be thrilled to have Harry in the house. She'd always liked him.

It was Hermione's best lie – that she didn't entertain uncharitable thoughts. She'd only rarely slipped and always over forgivable things like Trelawny or Umbridge. She did, though; she spent nights thinking unthinkable, impossible things. For example, how easily so many problems could be solved with a simple _oblivate_. Second year taught her so much.

***

Knowledge of death was not instantaneous. It was a process, beginning with birth and ending with the solution to that most unsolvable of problems. A drowned family pet – that wasn't death, it was a clue, a fact to be incorporated into a matrix of other clues. No breath, no motion, no warmth.

Hermione picked up the first clue before she learned to walk. Neither of her parents wanted to interrupt their impressive career trajectories. The solution was obvious – a nanny. But finding a full-time care-giver who met their exacting standards proved difficult. Finding one that met their standards and who could handle their daughter was harder. Hermione went through a series of nannies and sitters, ending in Stacey.

Stacey overfed Koi, the goldfish and failed to see Hermione picking him up. It was ten minutes before she noticed the empty talk and trail of water leading to Hermione's playroom.

Hermione didn't understand why he stopped moving – was he sleeping? bored? She thought if she let him play with her favourite toys he'd wake up. Start swimming again. He didn't of course, but Stacey did. She tried to tell the sitter that screaming was naughty – her mother most definitely didn't approve of screaming, but Stacey didn't listen.

Her parents came in then, saw the sitter trying to pull a dead goldfish from their daughter's hands and promptly took charge of the situation. It must have been horrifying, but Hermione was always struck by how silly the image was. Stacey was dispatched to greener pastures and Koi went for a nap, and then a long vacation. The Bahamas were mentioned.

Hermione didn't remember any of this, of course, but Janine, Stacey's younger sister was always happy to tell the story. Hermione spent the first three years of school as, fish-girl. Sometimes teacher's pet, for variety.

In retrospect she couldn't mind – Stacey and Janine taught her something important. Anyway, everyone had their Koi. She didn't remember Koi, no, but she had the idea of him. What she remembered was this: death is terrible.

Sitting in her living room, watching her parents' faces as Harry said strange words like Voldemort, phrases that defied any kind of logic like Death Eaters, talked of places like Azkaban, she remembered the goldfish. Justified. Justified, she thought, all of it.

Simple equations, obvious, necessary things – that was life. She spent that first summer avoiding the subject of the Dark Lord and it was easy, ridiculously, illogically easy, because – and she could she it so clearly now – because people didn't say his name. They didn't talk about the Death Eaters and as a matter of course, surreptitiously buried their children's pets. Sent them on vacation. Trolls, dragons – any and all of it went on vacation and Hermione spent her years at Hogwarts in the library, or watching Quidditch matches. It was natural.

Nature hadn't figured on the Harry Factor.

And now, lying in bed, remembering the idea of her stupid dead goldfish and listening to Harry laugh – actually laugh – at what sounded like The Life of Brian, she felt something inside of her come loose.

Unhinged. That was a word, a good word. One that was apt. Hermione was familiar with panic – the Harry Factor – but lying in her bed, in her house, heart racing, Harry downstairs, her parents. God, her parents – their faces – this was terribly and horrifically new.

Five years, five years at Hogwarts and it still hit her sometimes, the alien quality that magic gave the world. The way Ron could explain in detail, if pushed, how to transform a pin into a porcupine but couldn't explain why the liquid didn't spill out of glass filled just to the rim. Surface tension – shake the glass and watch that elasticity strain to the limit, and the liquid spill. Sometimes, if he woke up early, they skipped rocks on the lake, away from the Giant Squid and for Ron that was magic.

After tea, boxed scones and apocalyptic revelations there was nothing to do but make up the bed in the guest room. Her mother had sent them upstairs and it was like they'd settled into a holding pattern, everyone waiting to see what the Harry Factor would produce next. Even Harry.

She knew the rules. She'd kept up with maths and science because it gave her something to talk about with her parents and she liked it. The simple elegance. The symmetry. Magic had its own rules and she knew those too, but Harry, he knew how to break them.

She didn't know how to put things back together again. How to make transfigured pieces fit. The disparate half-truths that made up _this_ world, the world that existed in this house, this bed, were shifting and that movement was exposed.

Words spilled, like water, impossible to put back into the glass – she wasn't quick enough, and now she was falling in.

She was falling and the only thing left for her was the truth.


End file.
